


kissed by the asphalt

by orphan_account



Series: Fight Club AU [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Shotgunning, basically a fight club au, brief mention of driving under the influence, drugs and alcohol too, fighting is basically foreplay to these boys, warnings for violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6221107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan steals the Pig, planning to race Kavinsky, but stumbles into something unexpected.</p>
<p>“I always thought the cuts and bruises were fake,” Ronan said, taking a step forward until he was face to face with Kavinsky. “Forgeries. Dreamt up.”</p>
<p>Kavinsky laughed, then spat a mouthful of blood on the ground by Ronan’s feet. A few drops landed on Ronan’s left sneaker. </p>
<p>“Someone’s watched Fight Club a few too many times,” Ronan remarked. </p>
<p>Kavinsky only grinned wider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fox-meets-wolf (bluebear)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebear/gifts).



> Inspired by f0x-meets-w0lf's lovely fanart of the beautifully beaten up Skov. 
> 
> Takes place during The Dream Thieves, after Ronan stole the Pig for the first time.
> 
> Warnings for:  
> \- violence (not super graphic, but plenty of blood mentions)  
> \- drugs and alcohol  
> \- implied driving under the influence (do not do this!!)

Ronan put his foot on the brake and inched the car forward to examine the scene. 

Four cars parked in a semi-circle. Headlights on, throwing the scene into sharp relief. Kavinsky and Skov circling each other with their fists drawn. Even from inside the Pig, Ronan could hear and feel the bass from car speakers. 

For a moment, Ronan considered putting the Pig in reverse and taking his chances elsewhere. There were other boys to race; Kavinsky was replaceable. 

Then, halfway through punching Skov, Kavinsky glanced up and met Ronan’s eyes. 

Ronan put the car in park. 

Kavinsky raised an eyebrow, and promptly got decked in the face by Skov, who had capitalized on his pause. 

Ronan stepped out of the car. The night felt unreal and dizzy. His head was buzzing with the kind of pent-up energy that usually landed him in trouble. He was a dangerous creature and he wanted something equally dangerous to play with.

“I came to race,” he said, unsure why he felt the need to voice this out loud. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the filthy music coming from Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi.

Kavinsky grinned. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. “We aren’t racing.”

Skov stepped back, a bruise blooming around one eye. Behind him, Ronan noticed Prokopenko and Swan sitting against the RX-7, surrounded by empty bottles. Swan was draped over Prokopenko’s shoulder, just out of the glare of the headlights, either injured from fighting or too drunk to sit up. Prokopenko nodded at Ronan and made a vague kind of “cheers” motion with his bottle. 

“I always thought the cuts and bruises were fake,” Ronan said, taking a step forward until he was face to face with Kavinsky. “Forgeries. Dreamt up.”

Kavinsky laughed, then spat a mouthful of blood on the ground by Ronan’s feet. A few drops landed on Ronan’s left sneaker. 

“Someone’s watched Fight Club a few too many times,” Ronan remarked. 

Kavinsky only grinned wider. “What would Gansey say about his lap dog getting into a fight?”

Ronan didn’t answer. 

“Not that you could put up any kind of resistance,” Kavinsky mused, sucking on the inside of his cheek, his face hollower and harsher than usual, “what with the way you give in to any orders from your god Gansey.”

From his corner of the darkness, Prokopenko laughed. 

“Does he ever throw you around?” asked Kavinsky, something akin to a smirk on his face. “Push you to your knees? You know how it goes.” 

Ronan did not think to dignify this with an answer. He leaned back on his heels and waited for Kavinsky to speak, comfortably buzzed and antagonized and ready for something to happen.

When Kavinsky didn’t respond, Ronan opened his mouth. “Are we going to fight, or what?”

Kavinsky cocked his head. “I think I’ll let Prokopenko take you first.”

Prokopenko stood up from his seat against the car, tipping Swan rather unceremoniously onto the asphalt as he did so. Without a word, Skov took his place, lifting Swan up to lean on his shoulder and, strangely, cradling his head almost fondly.

“You in?” Kavinsky asked, spitting the words out as if they were insults.

Ronan had the peculiar impression that this was a test. “I’m in,” he said, taking care to spit the words back at Kavinsky.

Prokopenko faced Ronan, pupils blown cocaine-huge. He glanced back at Kavinsky, wordlessly asking his permission. Kavinsky crossed his arms, leaned back against his Mitsubishi, and nodded.

Prokopenko pulled back a fist and landed a blow on Ronan’s cheek. Ronan stumbled backwards, but kept his face even. Something was building inside him. It felt like fire. 

Kavinsky had given an odd little twitch when Prokopenko struck Ronan. He looked, for the first time, vaguely uncertain. Ronan watched him, curious. Then the moment passed and Kavinsky’s face settled. He gave a harsh laugh. 

“Keep going.”

This time Ronan moved first, darting in and throwing the first punch, his knuckles stinging as he made contact. Prokopenko let out a small noise of surprise and satisfaction, and stepped forward to swing wildly at Ronan. Ronan sidestepped this easily.

Prokopenko didn’t give a damn about footwork, and it showed. Ronan pushed him back all the way to one of the cars and pressed him up against the hood, landing punches all the while.

“Should’ve known you’d be fast,” Kavinsky remarked, sounding delighted. “Better stop now, before Prokopenko loses his pretty face.”

Mostly for effect, Ronan gave Prokopenko a quick blow to the side of the head. Prokopenko raised his arms to cover his face, abandoning all pretense of being in control.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling Ronan off Prokopenko harshly. With a sneer, Skov collected Prokopenko and led him to sit down next to Swan, who looked like he had regained consciousness. Prokopenko’s ear was bleeding rather profusely. He dabbed at it with one hand and winced.

Skov spat some choice words at Ronan, which were mostly muffled by the music, though he got the gist. Ronan wondered how long Skov and the others had been cleaning up Kavinsky’s messes.

Kavinsky looked unperturbed. “Looks like the dog can fight.”

Ronan turned his hand over, displaying both a set of nasty red marks and his middle finger, which he flipped up at Kavinsky.

There was something hungry in Kavinsky’s eyes when he surveyed Ronan, as if he had finally separated the Ronan that knew Latin and listened to Gansey from the Ronan that sought out fights. The other Ronan might be easily dissuaded from making bad decisions by his friends, but this Ronan was a threat, and Kavinsky knew it. He glanced down at Ronan’s knuckles and said, “I’ll go next.”

Ronan had no time to react before Kavinsky was edging toward him, fists raised. Kavinsky played dirty, going straight for Ronan’s side, landing a punch to his kidneys that was going to really hurt in the morning. But this was the middle of the night, when things like that didn’t count. 

Ronan shook off the blow easily, too buzzed on adrenaline and alcohol to care, and dropped to his knees in front of Kavinsky. Kavinsky faltered, looking down at Ronan with surprise. 

“Go on,” Ronan said, thoroughly enjoying Kavinsky’s stunned silence. “Make another joke about me on my knees.”

Kavinsky opened his mouth. “I-”

Ronan grinned, grabbed Kavinsky behind the legs, and knocked him down. Kavinsky gasped, his back flat to the pavement, Ronan’s knee digging into his chest.

Kavinsky turned to one side, dragging his leg across the asphalt and propping himself up on one elbow. “Not bad, Lynch,” he said, sounding impressed and a little taken aback. 

“Are you done?” asked Ronan.

Kavinsky shook his head, and Ronan clambered over him, effectively straddling him and pinning him to the ground. 

There was both no sound and too much sound. Ronan could hear the blood rushing in his ears, time suspended, the beats of the bass pulsing through his lungs. Time had slowed down or maybe even stopped altogether; it was hard to tell. The only real things in the world were Ronan’s fists and elbows, dangerous and unforgiving.  

Ronan stepped off Kavinsky when he was pretty sure he had broken one of Kavinsky’s ribs. Kavinsky cracked a bloodshot eye open, looking appraisingly at Ronan. 

“Different from fighting your toys,” Ronan said, drawing out the words. “Isn’t it?” 

Kavinsky stood up slowly, stretching his side as he did so. The movement looked painful. He examined a long scrape across his leg, where his knee had been kissed by the asphalt. Finally he looked up, eyes dark. “You’re going to be a challenge,” he said. It sounded like a promise, and Ronan shivered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- sexual content  
> \- drug use  
> \- driving under the influence (do not do this!!)

Soon after, Kavinsky made to go sleep in his car.  “Dream myself up a-” he faltered, evidently losing his train of thought. “Who the fuck knows.” 

Ronan wondered idly how much of this was Kavinsky’s personality and how much of this was drugs. 

“Ronan, man,” Kavinsky said, punching Ronan on the shoulder in an almost friendly way, “what do you want?”

This was a question that Ronan did not have an answer to. “What are my options?”

Kavinsky looked sideways at him. “Fuck, it’s not like I have a menu. I’ll pick something out for you.” He gave Ronan’s shoulder another punch and retreated to his car, placing a pill on his tongue, chasing it with something, and swallowing. His form stilled.

Ronan hadn’t expected Kavinsky to be so open about this, to be so willing to let others witness his dreams. Perhaps he simply didn’t care if they knew. He was also willing to dream around the others, putting them at risk if he brought back something distasteful or dangerous, which showed a kind of recklessness that Ronan could not even imagine. Ronan liked his recklessness to only involve himself. Fewer casualties.

“Lynch,” called Prokopenko, still sitting against the RX-7 with the others. “Let me take a look at your hands.” He made space for Ronan to drop down next to him where he was leaning back against a tire. Next to them, Skov and Swan were draped over each other, Swan biting Skov’s neck in what appeared to be equal parts making out and fighting. 

Prokopenko was clutching a makeshift first aid kit. Several bandages and rolls of athletic tape had spilled out onto the ground. He reached for Ronan’s wrist. 

“You’re not a doctor,” Ronan said, mostly for effect, giving up his hand anyway. 

Prokopenko uncapped a bottle with his teeth and, without any warning, poured a stinging substance on Ronan’s knuckles. Ronan hissed and pulled back his hand, cursing under his breath.

At this, Swan looked up from where he had been sucking on one of Skov’s collarbones. “If you want to be able to use your hands for the next few days, let him do it.” His tone was equal parts commanding and reassuring. 

“Do it now, before the adrenaline wears off,” Skov advised. His voice wavered. Swan had gone back to kissing his neck, and he took a sharp intake of breath. 

Ronan looked away, wordlessly giving his hand back to Prokopenko, who dabbed ointment on his cuts and bandaged his knuckles. He reached for Ronan’s other hand, repeating the steps. This time, Ronan didn’t flinch, instead distracted by Prokopenko’s ear, which was still gently dripping blood.

“Your ear looks disgusting,” Ronan said.

Prokopenko laughed. “I’ve had worse.” 

“I wasn’t apologizing,” Ronan said.

“I know,” said Prokopenko, smearing a generous amount of ointment on Ronan’s knuckles. 

The sound of a car door slamming from somewhere out of sight made Ronan jump. Kavinsky was awake again.

“There,” Prokopenko said, finishing wrapping Ronan’s hand.

“Thanks, man,” Ronan said, somewhat awkwardly. There was something rather off-putting about having his hands wrapped by the boy he’d just beaten up.

Another door slammed. Ronan heard an engine start, the sound familiar and warm. Then the sound of an engine accelerating, driving away. Then silence. Ronan jumped to his feet, cursing. 

Kavinsky had taken the Pig.

Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi was still parked, the driver’s side door hanging open. A leather keychain with a single key lay on the seat, as though taunting Ronan.

Ronan threw himself into the car and jammed the key in the ignition, his breathing tight and anxious. Just when he’d thought he’d beaten Kavinsky, perhaps even understood him, Kavinsky had to go and prove himself an even bigger asshole than Ronan had thought.

He sped out of the lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pig’s tail lights. The night was still and heavy. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

Ronan had the vague idea that since he had come to Kavinsky, now Kavinsky had gone to him. Hoping his intuition was correct, he turned left, then followed the road he knew by memory before pulling into the St. Agnes parking lot. Sure enough, the Pig was there. Ronan parked Kavinsky’s car, feeling slightly guilty for bringing someone like Kavinsky into a place like St. Agnes. 

Kavinsky sat in the driver’s seat of the Pig, smoking a joint. He rolled down the window as Ronan approached and blew smoke out it. “Imagine old Dick’s face if he could see what’s happening to his favorite car,” Kavinsky said, taking a long drag before exhaling. 

Ronan could imagine Gansey’s face, stern in its disapproval. The thought was sobering, though it was no match for the adrenaline and alcohol that Ronan could feel in his chest. He felt razor-sharp. He got in the car.

Kavinsky turned to look at him through heavy lids, his eyes already bloodshot. There were several bruises blooming spectacularly on his collarbones and shoulders, visible through his thin tank. He looked as though he’d been through hell, Ronan thought, which was probably part of the appeal. 

“Want some?” Kavinsky said, waving the joint in the air. 

Ronan shrugged. 

“Here,” Kavinsky said, drawing closer. He took a long drag, then cupped the back of Ronan’s head, pulling him in until their lips were nearly touching. His eyes were shut. He looked as peaceful as Ronan had ever seen him.

Ronan inhaled, feeling immediately dizzy and lightheaded. His skin felt like it was buzzing. Kavinsky’s eyes drifted open to gaze at Ronan, something unreadable in them.

“That’s some strong shit,” Ronan said. “I feel it already. Did you dream it up?”

Kavinsky shook his head. “It’s real weed. You shouldn’t be feeling anything yet.” He pulled away from Ronan to rummage under the seat. He extended his palm. In it lay a tiny piece of pink soap with the words Fight Club stamped on it. “This is all I dreamt.”

Ronan’s skin became agitated again. This time, he recognized it for what it was. He looked at the soap. “How very thematic,” he said.

Kavinsky grinned and took another hit. This time, it was Ronan who wrapped a hand around Kavinsky’s neck to pull him in. And this time, their lips met.

Kavinsky made a little surprised sound in the back of his throat, which deepened into a whine when Ronan sucked on his lower lip. 

The front seat was much too small for both of them, but Kavinsky crowded his way into Ronan’s side of the car anyway, pressing his head up against the cool window glass. He sucked a bruise into Ronan’s collarbone, biting and kissing his way up Ronan’s neck before cupping Ronan’s head again and kissing him deeply.

Ronan quickly discovered that Kavinsky was much more tolerable when he had his tongue in Ronan’s mouth. 

Ronan gripped Kavinsky’s side, pulling him closer. Kavinsky winced and pulled back, apparently still nursing his bruised ribs.

“Are you-” began Ronan, but then Kavinsky pressed back into him, his hand wandering down Ronan’s thigh, and Ronan could no longer think.

The world faded to a blur of smoke and heavy breathing. This was just like fighting Kavinsky, Ronan thought, although he had the vague sense that Kavinsky was winning this round. 

Kavinsky’s hand traced circles down Ronan’s thigh, and Ronan pulled him in, aching for more pressure. Finally, as Kavinsky’s hand found its way into Ronan’s pants, Ronan gave in, gasping and coming over Kavinsky’s hand. 

Kavinsky followed suit a second later, shuddering and slowing his rocking motion, biting Ronan’s lip all the while. 

“Fuck,” said Ronan, sated and suddenly very tired.

Kavinsky retrieved his hand from Ronan’s pants and promptly put it in Ronan’s mouth. 

Ronan rolled down the window and spat. “Fuck you, man.”

Kavinsky laughed. “Don’t get any on the seats, Lynch. This is your boyfriend’s favorite car.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. 

“What I don’t understand is if Dick’s so rich, why is he wasting his time on a beaten up car like this?” Kavinsky mused, his eyes falling shut as though deep in thought. He opened them suddenly, his eyes harsh yet empty. “Cars are replaceable. Makes no fucking sense.”

“That’s funny,” Ronan said.

Kavinsky raised a single eyebrow.

“Sometimes broken things can be fun,” Ronan said. “More exciting. You of all people should get that.” 

“Fuck me,” Kavinsky said, grinning, “I almost think that was a compliment.”   


“It wasn’t,” said Ronan, because Ronan never lied. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many firsts! My first Raven Cycle fic + the first time I've ever written anything that borders on porn.
> 
> A couple of things:
> 
> 1\. Prokopenko is so lovely and caring because Kavinsky dreamt him up. I took this to mean that if Kavinsky cares about a person, Prokopenko cares about them too, and because he's less of a dick than Kavinsky, he's actually able to show some of that affection.  
> 2\. In case it wasn't clear: lil baby Ronan thinks that he's getting feeling all tingly and good because of dream drugs but actually Kavinsky's just turning him on. A lot.  
> 3\. If you haven't seen Fight Club, I apologize for the random soap reference. Go watch it! It's good!  
> 4\. I was going to make the sex more graphic and a much bigger part of this fic, but they're drunk and high and teenagers, so I went for the more realistic portrayal, lol. 
> 
> You can thank tumblr user f0x-meets-w0lf for all of this - the Skov fanart that inspired this entire mess, the shotgunning ideas, the Skov + Swan relationship, and pretty much everything else. Seriously, go check out their art!!


End file.
